And Everything is August You
by themostrandomfandom
Summary: Set during the summer between Season Two and Three: Santana and Brittany spend the summer in love, but never talk about certain things. Canon compliant to 3x04. Brief sections told from Quinn's perspective. Mouseverse.
1. Prelude

There's a painting in the living room that her mother has owned since before she was even born. They had it even in the old house, even before. She sees sunlight sheen against the glass in the frame; she pays more attention to the prisms than the paint. After living with it for so long, you'd think she would know every line and stroke, but. One day, while she's reading on the couch, she looks up and realizes for the first time what she's actually seeing. Whereas before, there were only portions, blues and long swatches of foamy green, now she sees the ocean, the cliché skyline and indigo undertones. She sees it all and it doesn't surprise her, but.

It's like that with them, at the party, when suddenly, after three years of friendship, she looks and there they are, like. She sees for the first time that they've worn into each other, sea to sand, and that this thing, whatever it is she's always seen but never really seen at all, blooms and swells, something like. She's never really seen them before, she guesses, even though she kept them in her eyes, under passive watch, for such a long while now.

No one sees her, not even when their eyes meet hers from across the crowded room over a debris field of tipped plastic cups in rainbow hue and game boards spread over low coffee tables. No one really sees them, either. They look at her like they've never seen her before, too. They haven't seen her. When she catches the image of herself in the mirror over the sofa, she doesn't pause for the stranger. She should feel startled and lonely, maybe, but.

They drive her home.


	2. June

They spend the early part of the month just breathing for once, curled up in quiet corners of their houses, with parents gone to work and Brittany's little sister away on play dates. They read books aloud to each other and go on a kettle corn kick, always keeping a bowl nearby, reaching for it more out of boredom than hunger, their fingers sticky and salted, breath sweet in their mouths and against each other's lips.

At Brittany's house, they hang out with the cats. At Santana's house, they sprawl in the bay window looking over the side yard, sunlight falling in diamond prisms along their forearms and thighs. Brittany takes to naming the squirrels that pass by the window and Santana tells her that's gross—rats with fur, Britt—even though she smiles whenever Brittany comes up with an especially silly name for one of them, like Claudio or DJ NutterButter. As the weather gets warmer, they spend more and more time outside until Brittany's face freckles and Santana's tan lines disappear.

They're still trying things out, like kissing just because they can kiss and all sorts of different goodnight rituals. Brittany exceeds her text limit and her parents yell at her for it; she doesn't tell them that it's because she and Santana discovered the "No, you go to sleep first" game and she's determined to not lose.

They still do everything they've always done during the summers. They lounge on beach towels in the backyard, reading gossip rags and crunching carrot sticks, and go to the Simon Mall on overcast afternoons, shoplifting lipgloss and earrings into their purses when the clerks have their eyes trained elsewhere. Still, it's different than it was before because there's this thrill between them, like magnets connect their eyes, lips, hands, and bodies; they always, always find each other. Santana starts singing more around the house; Brittany can't stop smiling.

They go to a glee party at Mike Chang's house and drag Quinn along with them; she hangs out by the foosball table in the basement, side-eyeing everyone, stony faced. Brittany tries to teach Sam the Charleston with help from Mike; Santana laughs until she's hoarse. On the ride home, after they've dropped Quinn off, they talk about how sad Quinn seems and plot to get her out and doing things with them more often.

(Somehow the plot gets lost in the coming days, though.)

They curl into themselves and disappear from everyone, cocooned in their happy secret. Even though it's just the two of them, for the first time in months, neither one of them feels lonely. They don't see the glee kids much after the party, except occasionally at the Lima Bean; they don't see Quinn at all. Mostly it's just San and Britt, like it's always been, except better. There's still this nervous excitement between them; they've known each other for so long, but this summer feels like one big first.

In exchange for her parents paying for her gas money over the summer, Brittany agrees to babysit her little sister for a whole week while they go to Detroit to help move her mother's aunt into a rest home. Brittany doesn't really mind because Santana offers to help her babysit, which means they basically have run of the house, and especially after Brittany's mom and dad tell her sister that she has to listen to everything Brittany and Santana tell her to do.

"Even if it's something stupid?" she asks, incensed.

"Especially if it's something stupid," Dad affirms, winking at Brittany and Santana from across the table.

"We'll probably make you do naked cartwheels down the street before we feed you supper," Santana teases, smirking.

Brittany's sister rolls her eyes. "Santana! Gross. How come she gets to be the boss? She doesn't even live here."

"Doesn't she?" Brittany's mom counters, clearing their empty plates from the table. "She's been here about as long as you have, honey. I'm pretty sure she's part of the family." She smiles at Santana as she starts to load the sink.

Santana tries to control her grin after that one, but fails. Awesomely. "I have a key to the house and you don't," she shrugs, trying to play it off, mussing Brittany's sister's hair as she rises from the table. Her whole bearing seems lighter this summer. "Can I help with the dishes?"

Aside from refusing to eat the lasagna they make her the first night because it has onions in it, Brittany's sister doesn't give them much trouble at all. Despite her earlier complaints, she actually adores Santana and likes tagging around with the big girls, though she gets all kinds of sad when they tell her she has to go to bed, knowing that they'll stay up for hours after she's asleep.

"Don't worry," Brittany tells her. "We won't do anything you would think is fun anyway."

It's kind of actually really awesome having Santana around all the time.

All three girls take to sleeping in. Sometimes Santana makes them skillet breakfasts with eggs that have a faint maple aftertaste and silver dollar pancakes stacked inches high on a communal plate, but other times they eat cold cereal and read each other the riddles off the back of the boxes.

Brittany and Santana walk to the end of the driveway together every day after the mail truck leaves and collect whatever bills, coupons, and brochures have come, their shadows long in the midmorning light, merging together over the cracks in the concrete. At night, after they put Brittany's sister to bed, they share a shower, mixing up their soaps until they begin to smell like each other, and brush their teeth side by side at the sink. They sleep in Brittany's bed, spooned around one another's bodies without covers on top, and make quiet love every night after midnight, careful not to wake Brittany's sister. In the mornings, they find their fingers tangled, their whole bodies facing each other, breasts and bellies pressed so close that they breathe on a cycle, Brittany in, Santana out, their hair a mess of blonde-on-black swept across a single pillow.

They spend their days entertaining Brittany's sister when she needs it and doing chores around the house. As they load the washing machine, they sing old glee numbers to each other at maximum volume, their voices fraying into more shout than song. When Brittany's sister pokes her head into the laundry room to ask them what they're even doing, her eyebrows scrunched together in disapproval, Santana says that they're imitating Rachel Berry and Brittany starts laughing so hard that her sister just leaves.

When the house phone rings and Brittany can't push Lord Tubbington off her lap in time to reach it, Santana answers and says, "Pierce residence. No, we're not interested. Please remove our name from your list. Uh huh. Thank you. Mhm-hm. Bye," in her best fake-polite bitch voice, and Brittany feels a surge of adoration.

"What?" Santana says when she catches Brittany smiling at her. Her lips curl into a grin of her own because—really—she already knows exactly what.

"Nothing," Brittany says. Santana just beams.

On Thursday, they spend all day by the pool. At first, Brittany's sister has a friend over, so Brittany and Santana just lie back on their chaises, hiding behind their dark amber sunglass lenses, frying themselves in the tanning oil Santana's dad swears will give them cancer. They brush their knuckles together as their hands swing between the chairs. After Brittany's sister's friend leaves, they hop in the pool themselves, sluicing the oil from their skin with slick fingers and laughing when Brittany's sister tells them that it's nasty. When Brittany's sister starts to look bored, they ask her what she wants to do and she says that what she _wants _to do is keep playing mermaid princesses, but she can't because her friend went home.

They cut her off.

"Mermaid princesses are fucking badass," Santana says.

"You said two bad words," says Brittany's sister.

"Whatever, munchkin," Brittany splashes at her. "Do you want to play mermaid princesses or not?"

So maybe while they're playing, mermaid princess Santana kind of saves mermaid princess Brittany from a mean sea monster using the magical jewel Brittany's sister found in the secret sea cave. And maybe when she does, Brittany pretends to swoon and says, "My hero!" And maybe then Brittany feels mischievous and shouts, "Surprise tidal wave!" and splashes Santana and her sister while they shriek and try to paddle away. And maybe when Santana sticks out her tongue at Brittany, it's adorable. And maybe just then Brittany absolutely melts.

When a shadow crosses over the sun, they pull themselves up onto the deck to dry, curling into the fluffy towels Santana and Brittany laid out for them that morning. They give Brittany's sister a juice box from the cooler they keep on the picnic table because Brittany's mom has gotten paranoid about her kids dehydrating after swimming ever since she watched some Oprah special on the dangers of owning an in-ground pool. The whole time, they can't stop pinching each other and smiling.

"Brittany?" her sister asks, watching them from under the hood formed by her towel.

"Yeah, squirt?" Brittany says absently, paying more attention to dodging Santana's tickling than to the way her sister watches her, infinitely curious. "San!"

"Do you two have a crush on each other?"

"What?"

Santana and Brittany both turn to look at the little girl, sitting cross-legged on her chaise, teasing a juice straw between her sunburnt lips. They stop where they stand. Santana's hands freeze at Brittany's sides. Brittany feels the cold from the cloud blocking the sun for the first time really since she exited the pool. She thinks Oh god and waits.

A pause.

"How do you know what a crush is? You're, like, two," Santana says finally, which is different from what Brittany expected her to say. Her voice sounds surprisingly bright. Brittany looks at her, amazed. Santana didn't say no.

"Eight and a half," Brittany's sister corrects. "And my teacher told me because Jake Halvorsen wouldn't stop following me around at recess," she says matter-of-factly. Another pause. She looks at Brittany and Santana seriously. "Well, do you?"

Santana gives Brittany's sister a look before her face turns shy. She draws a sharp breath. "Yeah," she says suddenly. The word spills out so quickly that it almost seems like an accident. But it isn't an accident. Santana gives Brittany a desperate look, like she's sinking into water and needs Brittany to pull her out. But then she reaches over and grabs Brittany around the waist, pulling her in close so that they're standing hip against hip.

Suddenly, Brittany feels like she's two steps behind everything. Like, oh god, did Santana really just do that? Did she really admit that they like each other that way? To Brittany's sister? To Brittany's little baby sister who's known Santana like her whole life and like not-so-secretly wants to be Santana when she grows up? Did Santana really just say that she has a crush on Brittany?

There's a nervous waver in Santana's voice, but she talks through it. "Why wouldn't I have a crush on her?" Santana says, breath steadying. She's not quite smirking, but she's smiling. For a second, she looks bashful, but then she gives Brittany another squeeze. Now she owns it. "She's super pretty and super smart and super awesome and—"

"Ew!" Brittany's sister squeals, burying her face in her towel.

Brittany can feel herself blushing like crazy. Her mouth hangs open and she can't even react as Santana shuffles closer to her, towel slouching down around the crooks of her elbows like a shawl, exposing her shoulders. Brittany can smell the aseptic scent of chlorine in Santana's hair and feel the last remnants of the oil from earlier slick along the contours of her skin, on her collarbones and ribcage where her torso presses against Brittany's.

"Actually," Santana says, "you wanna know a secret?"

Brittany's sister nods excitedly. "Yeah."

"I'm like seriously in love with your big sister. I think I'm gonna kiss her," Santana smiles leaning in.

"Santana!" Brittany's sister groans, covering her eyes with her towel.

And.

Oh god.

Santana's kissing Brittany, her lips on Brittany's lips, in front of someone they like actually know. It's chaste and quick, but Brittany's still pretty sure that her heart's going to explode. She almost forgets to kiss Santana back, but, at the last instant, she remembers. She laughs into Santana's mouth and when they pull away, she's pretty sure neither of them feels cold at all anymore.

They grin at each other like dopes while Brittany's sister mumbles something unintelligible into her towel; they ignore her, breathless and dizzy, and Brittany scrunches up her nose. She can't help it. She singsongs, "Santana and Brittany sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G! First comes love, then comes—"

"You're not supposed to sing that song about yourself!" her sister protests, finally daring to look up from her knees. She sticks out her tongue at them; Santana sticks out her tongue back, arms still wrapped protectively around Brittany's body. Brittany can feel sunburn heat rising from their skin where they touch; they're both going to ache tomorrow, but right now everything feels perfect.

"There's a first time for everything," Brittany says wisely.

"Damn straight," says Santana.

"You said another bad word."

"You're supposed to listen to us."

Brittany's sister just rolls her eyes. "Can I go inside and watch cartoons now?" she says.

"Bath first," Brittany commands.

"And put your swimsuit in the laundry sink," Santana adds.

As Brittany's sister disappears into the house, her towel flapping behind her like a cape, Santana stoops to pick up the empty juice box she left behind. When she stands up, she grins at Brittany and chuckles, amused with herself and everything. "So I'm pretty sure we just came out to an eight year old."

"Eight and a half year old, Santana."

A pause.

"We should probably make her a sandwich or something for when she gets out of the bath."

They gather up the towels and sunglasses from the deck; it's starting to look like it might rain.

And just like that, they've done another big first.

Later that night, as they lie in Brittany's bed, Santana's hands on Brittany's stomach, Brittany's leg arranged lazily over Santana's hip, Santana will ask Brittany if she thinks her sister will tell their parents and Brittany will say she doesn't think so. Right now, though, they just troop into the house, Brittany after Santana, and when they reach the sliding glass door, Brittany leans over, palm to handle, and kisses Santana because she can.


	3. Interlude

She used to do jigsaw puzzles because she was patient and because she was lonely. (Her sister went to college and the house got so quiet, silence settling into the floors and the wood like ache into a bone.) She had careful fingers that never bent the cardboard corners and good eyes that could see each teardrop border and match it to the concave joints which craved a fill where there was lack. (Her sister taught her the best way to do it before she went away: to lay every piece out and group the mates.) Her hand hovered over heaps of cracker-thin blue and purple and freckled green and brown spread upon the table, ready for her to pluck up and pave down. She could always tell what pieces went together, even before they touched.

When they show up on her doorstep, fingers locked, elbows knocking, she thinks back to the extra piece, the one she never managed to fit, placeless beyond the whole, and then of the last two fitted pieces to every puzzle, how they always seemed most beautiful, wrapped up in a rightness of two things made for each other and made for an end.

Something curdles in her stomach. (Her sister only went to college a few suburbs over, but she moved out of the house anyway, like she couldn't wait to leave.) She tells them they should go, but in less words, and then watches from the window in her sister's empty room, overrun with their mother's dusty sewing supplies now, as they slip into their car, breathless, and prove how well they fit.


	4. July

They decide to hold hands because, after New York, Quinn already knows.

(In the summer, Brittany feels like she can see for miles.)

"It's not a big deal," Santana says, voice high and flighty, eyes darting between her own kneecaps, pressed against the center console, and Brittany, facing her from the passenger seat. "I mean, we're..."

They don't say it because they haven't said it all summer; they're not even sure what "it" is at this point.

"Yeah," Brittany quickly agrees, playing with the hem of her shirt, feeling the gauzy fabric between her fingertips. "It's just..."

Silence. Eye contact. Wheezy, nervous laughter. Fingers fumble to find fingers over the console.

"It's kind of a big deal, isn't it?"

"A little... a lot."

"We're pretty much badasses."

"Totally. Really super cute badasses."

Two minutes later, Santana wiggles her fingers between Brittany's, testing out the feeling as they walk up the drive. Neither one of them looks down. They don't want to jinx it. Brittany swings their arms a little, humming, soaking in the incredible rightness of it all. She feels so light lately and comfortable, like a cat sprawled in a sunbeam.

(It all seems so easy when they do it like this. Why didn't they think of it before?)

They expect Judy Fabray, eyes bugging and lips spread in a perfect o, shocked to see two girls—her daughter's best friends—linked by so much more than just pinky-fingers on her front stoop.

What they get instead is Quinn Fabray and a total surprise.

Santana's eyebrows almost make it to her hairline and Brittany's mouth falls open, incredulous.

"Easter egg!" Santana blurts, unable to reel it in.

Quinn grimaces and throws the door closed hard in their faces without waiting for a better greeting.

"Cotton candy," Brittany mutters, staring at the door.

The heavy knell of the door slam echoes down the walk. It's only been a month since they last saw Quinn. Now they know for sure what they only suspected before: they waited too long to do this. They should have come sooner. They look at each other, feeling keenly guilty. The spent June finding a place for themselves; Quinn was a July afterthought. They certainly hadn't expected to find her like this.

After a small nod from Brittany, Santana knocks on the door again. It takes a second, but Quinn answers, opening the door wide and leaning impassively against the frame, propped up by one elbow. She's all acid-washed denim and safety pins. She wears a faded black t-shirt that's either really vintage or really pretentious and she smells of patchouli oil—Brittany called it _p'tooey oil _when she was little—and the musty choke of cigarette odor clinging to dry, unwashed skin.

And, holy shit, her hair.

"Quinn," Santana falters. She can't stop staring at Quinn like she's never seen her before.

There's something just a bit too put together in Quinn's grunge, like she cares a lot about not caring. Leave it to Quinn Fabray to put too much effort into letting herself go.

"What are you doing here?" Quinn says, an edge in her voice, which seems even more stepped-on and throaty than usual. She squints against the afternoon sunlight coming in from the outside, house shadows falling over her face. Her body forms a lazy S against the doorway.

Brittany ignores Quinn's obvious annoyance. "We're here to kidnap you!" she says brightly.

"Yeah," Santana says, using the high, phony voice she usually reserves for strangers and adults. "We were gonna drive to Toledo and check out the campus at Bowling Green. The cheerleading squad's putting on an exhibition, and we thought it might be good to check it out. For next year, maybe. You in?"

"And what makes you two think I would want to tag along on your date?" Quinn asks. Her eyes flick to their twined hands, still hanging between them. She doesn't sound mean.

Just bored. Tired, even.

"It's not a date!" Santana protests, for different reasons than she would have protested last year. She doesn't drop Brittany's hand. Instead, she holds it tighter. Brittany feels so proud of her. "You could bring someone, if you wanted!"

Santana immediately cringes and so does Brittany; it's the wrong thing to say for about a million different reasons and they both know it. They remember New York.

(How could they not with the look Quinn gives them?)

"Bring a friend!" Brittany offers. "Like Mercedes. She was a cheerleader, too."

Quinn just makes a scoffing noise. She's almost as good at rolling her eyes as Santana is sometimes.

"God," she says. She sounds sad.

Before they can say anything else, she's shut the door in their faces again, this time softly.

"Wow," Santana says.

"Yeah," Brittany agrees.

They walk back to Santana's car in silence, their fingers clasped tightly together. The alder trees of Dudley Road cast mottled shadows over their skin. Brittany gives Santana's hand a squeeze when they reach the car, feeling her pulse through her palm. They both feel stupid, leaving, but what else can they do?

"Okay," Santana says, once she's in the driver's seat. She jams the keys into the ignition, but doesn't turn the car on. "Okay," she says again, breathing through her teeth.

"Santana," Brittany says, brow knitting. She knows what's coming.

Santana's fingers curl around the steering wheel, her knuckles blanching. She keeps her eyes locked straight ahead—on the road, on the alder trees swaying over the drive, on something far off in the distance that Brittany can't see, but can feel as strongly as Santana can. "It's like I don't even know her anymore," Santana says quietly.

They had thought—wrongly—that Quinn hadn't called them because they hadn't called her.

"She's still Quinn," Brittany shrugs.

Santana shakes her head, not in refutation, but in disappointment. "Sophomore year, we would have never let a kid like her hear the end of it."

Brittany can almost see the gears turning in Santana's head, see her worrying about what will happen to Quinn once the school year starts and Quinn returns to McKinley wearing the wrong clothes and hanging with the wrong crowd. The fact that Santana cares about this so much tells Brittany exactly what to say: "Sophomore year, we would have never let kids like _us _hear the end of it. We're still her friends, San."

Finally, Santana turns to look at her. After a second, her face softens and her grip slides off the wheel. Santana stares at Brittany as if Brittany is something brand new and really sacred. She reaches over for Brittany's hands, pulling them from Brittany's lap and taking them in her own, kneading the space between Brittany's thumbs and forefingers. She sighs. "We are if she'll let us be," Santana says quietly, raising their laced fingers to her mouth and kissing Brittany's knuckles tenderly, one by one.

Brittany feels something warm and sweet rise to the surface in her. She blushes. "I'm proud of you for trying," she says. That earns her a subdued smile. "You're such a good friend, San." A real smile now. "And you're kind of a mushball." A fake stern look, then a kiss.

(They have the car parked behind Quinn's gate; no one can see them from the street, otherwise—)

Pretty soon Santana has her fingers in Brittany's hair. Her thumbs stroke the impossibly soft skin just behind Brittany's ear and Brittany hums into Santana's mouth; she still hasn't really gotten over the newness of kissing Santana where there's natural light. It's kind of amazing, actually, even behind the gate.

(Brittany knows that there can still be secrets in the daytime, too.)

They break to breathe and Santana whines, "Why did she have to dye her hair, though?"

Brittany kisses her again. "Tina dyes her hair," she says against Santana's lips, shifting to her knees so she can get a better angle. They don't break from their kisses. Their conversation mumbles out between pressed lips.

"But that's Tina. Quinn is... Quinn," Santana says. She always sort of sucks at arguing with Brittany, but she especially sucks at it when Brittany's tongue is in her mouth. "She's supposed to be, like... blonde."

Brittany scoots forward, putting a knee onto the console, the fake leather sticking to her skin, imprinting it. She climbs towards the driver's seat, her ass bumping against the radio and A/C buttons on the dash, and ducks under the rearview mirror, lips still pressed against Santana's, eventually trundling into Santana's lap. She keeps a palm pressed against the driver's side window for support. It's an awkward fit. Santana adjusts the seat, pressing the button to scoot it back, giving Brittany room to settle.

They continue kissing, slow and thoughtful. Brittany smirks, wrapping her arms around Santana's neck, feeling the heat radiating from her body. "You just like blondes."

"I like one blonde," Santana corrects, linking her hands around Brittany's lower back. "Love, actually." She's smiling now, changing the shape of the kisses. Something swoops then soars in Brittany's chest. Her heart beats to the fast rhythm of Santana, Santana, Santana.

She knows Santana can feel it, too: this heat and surety between them. She decides to go the silly route. "But, San, Sam is with Mercedes now! You shouldn't fall in love with other people's boyfriends. It's not nice," Brittany teases, nudging their foreheads together. She smiles so widely that only the very tips of their lips touch.

"Gross!" Santana says, pinching Brittany's sides. It sends a giddy jolt up Brittany's spine and she squeals, giggling as she wiggles away from Santana's touch. "Boys are icky, Britty!"

"They have cooties," Brittany laughs.

"Yup," Santana says seriously, leaning in to find Brittany's mouth again.

For a moment, they kiss without speaking, their faces so close together that Brittany's eyelashes flutter against Santana's temple. They make breathy sounds into each other's ears; when Santana nips at Brittany's lower lip, Brittany hums. Brittany can taste summer all over Santana—their long sleeps and late breakfasts, the cocoa butter Santana slathers on her limbs when they lie out in the yard, and that unmistakable Santana warmth that gets progressively brighter between June and July, July and August, only fading in late September and early October, a few weeks before Brittany's birthday.

Brittany grinds her hips into Santana's, their shorts rubbing together and heat blooms over Brittany's skin, too. Everything inside of her reaches for Santana; she wants to hold Santana tight to her and never let her go. "Thank you," Brittany gasps against Santana's cheek, "for holding my hand."

"What, Britt?"

Brittany leans down to say it again, but just then a blaring shrillness pierces the air. Brittany and Santana jolt apart, as if burned, and look around, frantic. Brittany feels her heart leap in her chest, rung like a bell. The sound halts as abruptly as it started. They expect to see Judy Fabray in her Range Rover, hand to her car horn, two seconds away from calling the cops so that she can press charges against Brittany and Santana for public indecency.

But she's not there.

No one pulled into the driveway.

It's just them, Brittany's ass pressed up dangerously close to the wheel.

What happened dawns on them and they both laugh.

"Nice one, Britt!" Santana says, giving Brittany's behind a light smack as she clambers off of Santana's lap, plunking down into the passenger's seat again.

"Oops," Brittany says, smiling. Her heart still beats fast: from their scare, from Santana, from so many things that she can't even name them all. She feels her cheeks flush and leans back, stretching her neck against the back of her chair.

"Quinn's probably like, 'What the hell was that?'"

"She's probably like, 'I bet it was just Santana and Brittany making out in Santana's car again.'"

They both giggle. A pause.

Suddenly, Santana looks at Brittany seriously, her eyes dark and deep with a quality that Brittany can't name, but would know anywhere. "She was actually pretty cool about it," Santana says quietly. "She didn't really say anything."

"No, she didn't," Brittany agrees. If she could, she would send Quinn flowers or something, or a million thank you cards. Maybe dead flowers—those seem more like Quinn's style now. Quinn has no idea how much it helps or what she even did. Brittany knows, though; she keeps it close to her heart.

When Santana speaks next, she all but whispers. "I think it bothers me for the wrong reasons, Britt."

"What?"

Santana hesitates, eyes darting back and forth between the dash and her hands. "I think I'm selfish. I'm scared for her, but I'm scared for us, too. I... we kind of need her."

Brittany reaches over and sets a hand on Santana's knee. She feels Santana's pulse thrumming through her femoral artery along the side of her leg. Last year, Santana never would have said as much as she just said now. She never would have admitted to even liking Quinn, let alone to needing her.

"You're a good friend, San," Brittany repeats. "Quinn's lucky to have you."

Santana hangs on Brittany's words, perfectly trusting. She looks like she did on the last day of school, when she and Brittany talked next to the lockers: like Brittany is gospel.

"We'll think of something," Brittany says, shrugging. She doesn't know what yet, but they always do.

"It's gonna have to be better than a haircut this time," Santana says.

"So, what?" Brittany jokes. "Like a mani-pedi?"

They both laugh. Santana pats Brittany's hand against her knee.

"Can we go to Toledo now?" Brittany asks.

"Sure thing, baby," Santana says and Brittany feels a little thrill; she's still not used to that part. A wicked grin spreads over Santana's face. "Let's take a bunch of pictures at the exhibition and tag Quinn in every single one on Facebook. We'll make her a cheerleader again whether she wants to be or not."

"San!"

They decide to hold hands on the drive to Toledo, without really saying anything about it. Santana just puts her hand on the console, open, and Brittany takes it, an immeasurably bright feeling in her chest.

(It all seems so easy when they do it like this. Why didn't they think of it before?)

As they pull out of Quinn's driveway onto Dudley Road, they pass someone who might be Judy Fabray in what might be a Range Rover. Or maybe it's a Jeep. She turns onto the street with what could be a glance at them. Whoever it is—Judy, a stranger, the Mother of God—Santana picks up their hands from the console and definitely waves at her, wiggling her fingers over Brittany's knuckles. It's hard to say if the woman looks surprised or if she even notices them; they're gone too fast to really see her face, even in the rearview.

If it is Judy and if she does notice, she has more things to worry about than just Brittany and Santana holding hands because they're in love.

(In the summer, Brittany feels like she can see for miles.)

It's kind of no big deal anyway.

But maybe it kind of is.


	5. Postlude

Her father used to keep camping gear in the garage, but she never saw him use it. He must have taken it with him after he moved out, because it wasn't there when her mother invited her home; there was just blank space between unstained wooden shelves—no more packs and iron kettles, no more neon yellow nylon rope coils or bunched up tent canvas or skillets—and a handful of tools that he must have missed: an unopened pack of handwarmers, a dull X-Acto knife, and a compass in an aluminum case.

When they come looking for her with joking threats of peroxide, combs, and scented soaps, something in her should roll over, but it doesn't. Engine dead. There's this ache so low in her that it bogs her down. They don't seem to notice the dullness over everything; their eyes brim over with light and they speak in warm voices, still tided by the recent summer. Their elbows tap together as they sway on the spot and lean forward to talk to her through the fence, the action as persistent and unplanned as the porch door tapping against its frame in the wind. They find each other, set on course by some invisible compass needle.

She isn't like them. She feels tired mostly and battered mostly, but no one's touched her, not really, not for months. Nothing helps her on her way.


	6. August

They show up late and nobody cares. It doesn't really matter. Santana knows that the last block party of the summer is always a wash anyway, kids acting extra crazy just because they know that, in a few short days, crazy—or at least this kind of crazy—will be hard to come by.

In the old days, Puck used to thrive on these parties, getting in more noncommittal hookups and tequila shots than anyone could even count, but, this year, he's the only other glee kid who even shows up, and he only stays long enough to swipe a bottle of Jack from the host's parents' liquor cabinet, do a keg stand, give a sophomore a wedgie, and leave. Finn doesn't even make an appearance; he's probably too wiped out from working at Mr. Hummel's shop all day to even remember there's a party. God only knows where Quinn is.

From glee, it's just Brittany and Santana—the last two queens in their dynasty—making the rounds, recapturing something of their old invincibility, proving that they deserve to be here with the other popular kids, that they belong.

Except they really don't.

Sure, they slip easily into the gossip circles of the other Cheerios, bitching and backbiting with the rest of them, causing the freshmen to cower and the older girls to flare with jealousy because they're so unapproachable and cool, even after months off the squad, but their hearts aren't really in it. Parties used to be a showcase for them: a place they went to prove to people that they were who they weren't.

Now that neither of them can even fake an interest in making out with that new wide receiver who transferred from Shawnee, somehow it all seems like a joke—and maybe that's why they spend most of the party looking at each other under the wavering, orange bonfire light and grinning like idiots, drinks in hand.

Or mostly why, anyway.

As they sit on the edge of the hot tub, their bare feet submersed in the water, eerie green light rippling over their skin, Brittany leans over and sets her head on Santana's shoulder, sighing for a different reason than she would have last year. Her voice sounds honeyed sweet and happy—content. She has a wine cooler balanced between her knees; Santana gave up on her rum and Coke a while ago, abandoning it somewhere on the deck.

They're alone on the far side of the party, everyone else around the bonfire, slopping and faltering. No one can see them; they're perfect. All summer, it's been like magnets between them, and the pull has grown stronger with every passing month. Santana can always feel Brittany tugging at her heart, no matter where they go.

Fuck it, Santana thinks. Her lips hover, open, just over the crown of Brittany's head. She breathes in the scent of sugar flower sweet pea Brittany, the hot chlorine wafting up from the water, and the yeasty sourness of alcohol hanging over the yard. "I love you," she whispers conspiratorially, the words warming her from the insides out. She smiles into Brittany's hair, feeling tipsier than she really is for a moment.

Brittany squeezes Santana's kneecap and nestles closer to Santana, resting her head against Santana's neck. "I love you, too, San," Brittany says. Santana can feel Brittany smiling into her skin. Brittany starts to hum something in a major key and the sound buzzes through the both of them. Santana starts to wonder how many other ways she can sneak love to Brittany tonight.

She thinks of it like a game.

So maybe Santana roasts Brittany a marshmallow when they sit down next to the bonfire to dry their feet. Maybe she makes it golden brown, a thin crust over the melted inside, just the way Brittany likes it, not charred to ash like what tastes best to Santana, and offers it to Brittany, fresh off the tine. Maybe she sets her hand on Brittany's lower back to steady Brittany when she sits down. (Okay, so maybe no one's looking and maybe Santana knows it.) Maybe she keeps knocking their knees together in time to the LMFAO song blaring from the speakers perched on the deck. Maybe Brittany starts to catch on at that point.

After that, they hang off each other's elbows, meandering through the crowds, lips pursed like they've got some secret that they're awfully smug about; maybe they do. They dance together once or twice and no one seems to notice that, this time, it's different, that it isn't like last year, all desperate and trumped up—that, this time, it's fun and easy instead; they have a rhythm. When their bodies curl against each other, nothing in them shies away from the other.

They fit together perfectly.

They're still subtle, of course. Or subtle-ish.

Around the time the JV linemen decide to "cowboy up" and collectively take a piss in the pool, ass by ass, Santana and Brittany decide it's time to leave; it's after midnight anyway.

The days are still dog's tongue-hot, but an autumn coolness has begun to seep into the nighttime air, hinting at the season to come. The freshmen at the party all got wasted, but Brittany and Santana held back, building up a pleasant buzz, but nothing too outrageous. Now the world feels soft around them, muddled, like water-stained edges on a photograph. They can still smell the hot hickory roast of bonfire fanning over the neighborhood. It will stay in their clothes and hair until tomorrow.

Music follows them, a faint heartbeat thump in the background, as they walk down the street, away from the shouting and whoops of the McKinley High royalty, away from the party, back to their bed. Brittany doesn't live too far away from the host's house, but far enough that the chill in the air catches up with them before they make it home; Brittany starts shivering, rubbing her hands together, exhaling with voice behind it, not just breath. She's in a miniskirt and short sleeves and her hair is still kind of wet from where someone splashed her when she got too close to the pool. Brittany is the kind of girl who wears shorts even in the winter, but that doesn't mean she never gets cold.

"... and then she totally tied the little cherry stem up with her tongue and made out with Randy Mackey on the trampoline. I think I could do it, if I practiced—the cherry part, I mean. I can do that weird tongue thing, you know?" she's saying, demonstrating, opening her mouth to Santana. Her tongue folds into three parts, like leaves on a clover.

"BrittBritt!" Santana says, reciprocating; she can't do the trick like Brittany can, so mostly she just smiles, giddy, and wags her tongue around. Brittany jumps up and down, delighted, and suddenly Santana feels like she has the world's best kept secret all to herself. Sometimes Santana has to wonder how anyone can keep from falling in love with Brittany Pierce after meeting her at all. Brittany is perfect, perfect, perfect.

Brittany laughs at Santana as they walk under a streetlight and Santana catches sight of the goosebumps on Brittany's arms. Brittany's still shaking. Apparently, goofing around doesn't do anything to warm her up.

"Here," Santana says suddenly. She wiggles her shoulders, shaking one arm free from her blazer, then the other; she holds the blazer out to Brittany like a peace flag, waiting for her to say something.

Brittany doesn't say anything. She flashes Santana that same curious look she's been giving her all summer: soft, hopeful, deep, and wise. Brittany accepts the jacket and starts to pull it on, fumbling a little with the right sleeve—maybe because she's tipsy, maybe because it's dark—and Santana reaches over to help her with it. For a second, Santana feels like she could do fucking anything.

"Got it, pretty girl?" she says, glad that, for one thing, she never really blushes, and that, for another, it's dark, so that even if she were blushing—which she isn't—Brittany couldn't see it. Probably.

"Thank you," Brittany says. And, okay, so the way that she's looking at Santana right now just might make Santana want to do a cartwheel or something. A pause. Then. "You gave me your jacket," Brittany singsongs.

Lately, Brittany's taken to pointing it out whenever Santana does something especially coupley. It kind of makes Santana feel like a hero, but it also reminds her of how much she has left to do. They still haven't really talked about this part. "No one would notice that it's mine," Santana mutters. "It's just a girl's jacket. And you're a girl."

Brittany shrugs, her grin still going strong. "But I know it's your jacket, San."

"But—"

"And I think it's cute."

"But—"

"And I'm not cold anymore. So."

"Hey, Brittany, will you hold my hand?"

It's out before Santana even realizes that she's said it. They can still only do things like this in secret, under the shade of night or in Santana's big, empty house or under Brittany's pastel sheets when they fall asleep. They held hands that once when they went to see Quinn, but still not where it counts and never spontaneously.

Brittany reaches over and slides her fingers between Santana's. Her whole hand feels like ice.

"Jesus!" Santana says before she can stop herself.

"Sorry," Brittany shrugs.

Santana gives Brittany's hand a squeeze to tell her it's okay and Brittany just laughs and swings their arms between them. She starts to get that little dance in her feet, more skipping than walking, dragging Santana along. By now, they can't hear the party anymore; there's no music, only the distant sound of traffic and the nighttime opus of Lima—the crickets and the faraway cop sirens, the random rustles and airplane jets overhead. Brittany looks beautiful, half in shadow and half in streetlight, her hair falling out of its clip, cheeks pink from the cold. Santana feels nothing but warmth. She feels nothing but home.

Brittany takes a flying leap onto the sidewalk from the street, fluttering her feet in a fleet jeté. She's still giggling to herself, petting the bones in Santana's hand with her chilly fingers, yanking her onto the curb.

"What's so funny?" Santana asks, laughing because Brittany's laughing, laughing because Brittany's perfect.

Brittany grins at Santana like she's about to tell her a secret. "Being in love is so much fun!" she whoops.

And even though Santana could make a joke about all the fun they had last year, she doesn't, because she finally gets it.

For so long, loving Brittany was something Santana tried not to do because it felt impossible. She spent long nights curled up in her bed, music blaring through her earbuds, trying to fall asleep without thinking or feeling anything, only to see Brittany at Cheerios practice the next day and lose all her resolve, crumbling in on herself. Love sucked. It felt like getting tied in knots—and especially during those long months between March and the prom, when every day went uphill and forever, and everyone spooked Santana, even Brittany.

Especially Brittany.

But now love feels like everything good and makes everything good. That party was fucking stupid, but Brittany was there so Santana had fun. Even though she's loved Brittany for forever, this summer is the first time Santana has really enjoyed it.

Just then, something catches Santana's eye.

"Look, Britt!" she says quickly, pointing up at the sky, vast and clear, with a gray summer moon and just the faintest freckling of stars visible over the Lima light pollution.

"A shooting star!" Brittany gasps and Santana says at the same time, "Make a wish!" as if she has to tell Brittany twice.

Brittany takes wishes very seriously: birthday candles, wishing wells, and 11:11 in both the morning and the night all border on the sacred for her. She holds her breath and closes her eyes, in tune with whatever great blank something it is out there that grants wishes in the same way she's in tune with music and can always find a beat, even in what should be danceless songs. Brittany never tells what she wishes for and Santana's always been too scared to ask her.

Santana can't believe in wishes quite the way that Brittany does. Wishes just seem so weightless to her, like something invisible and impossible to touch. Santana believes in goals and plans and things she can measure out and feel between her fingers. Brittany tells Santana that wishes and goals aren't opposites of each other, so Santana can believe in both, if she wants to. Santana tries, but she just doesn't trust it, and she's told Brittany so. Brittany promises her that it's okay; she says that sometimes wanting to believe is as good as believing itself.

Tonight, Santana wants to believe. She has every reason to.

So.

The shock of white light flares then fizzles, a melting camera flash over the horizon. It leaves a floating afterimage seared against their retinas. Santana blinks and blinks and blinks until it fades enough for her to look over at Brittany, who still has her eyes cinched shut and her nose scrunched up, her whole face tight like a button. Santana gives her hand a squeeze.

"BrittBritt?" she says.

"Got it."

"Good."

"Did you make a wish, San?" Brittany looks at her now, searching her face. Missed chances for wishes make Brittany heartsore, just like spoiled wishes do.

"Yeah, Britty, I did. Did you?"

Brittany looks at Santana for a long second, her eyes tracing over Santana's face, mapping her out, a long, deep, hopeful look on her face. There's none of that old sadness from last year. "Yeah, San. I did." Something passes between them. Santana feels it deeper than her skin or heart or even blood; it runs through the core of her like an aquifer. She shivers and so does Brittany, a brightness in their eyes.

That night, when they lie in Brittany's bed, bodies still soft from the alcohol, Santana sinks her face into Brittany's hair and breathes deeply, taking in her sleep scent and hoping Brittany's dreaming. "I'm sorry," she sighs, pressing a kiss to Brittany's scalp, but what she really means is "I hope," or maybe more "I wish."

They spend September in the quiet and October in more silence.

When November comes and that last summer heat has died away, Santana remembers her wish.


End file.
